RSS Feed

Tag Archives: poet

Fun with the homie, Cleverbot

Screenshot 2012-12-08 at 9.11.44 AM

 

Screenshot 2012-12-08 at 9.12.39 AM

Advertisements

BIG N E W S

 

I know most of my Facebook friends don’t read my blog. Heck, most  FB friends don’t ever comment on any of my posts (HUGE appreciation to those who have done so and continue to do so.).  I’m cool with that. According to my WordPress stats, even less of my Twitter followers read my blog. Okay with that, too. But some of my blog followers regularly check this place out, and have even left a comment. So… because this blog has served as a literary evolution of sorts for me, I want to let you know that my second book (which may come out before my first book) can now be pre-ordered here, here, here, on Amazon. It doesn’t come out until March, but I want to let you know before I do the whole FB, Twitter, tumblr, etc. thing. It’s called When Kerosene’s Involved and it’s a book of prose poems. I wrote most of the poems in the book from fall of 2010 – summer of 2011. Thank you to those who pre-order it, and thank you for your support. I never intended to write a book, but feel quite accomplished and thankful.

Best,

Daniel Romo
author of Romancing Gravity and
When Kerosene’s Involved 🙂

 

WKI

The last sentence almost sold me

 

yadontsay

Zorro as Poet

 

Zorro writes poems. Sonnets are his specialty. He likes the structure they
embody: their formal, traditional nature. His lucky number is 14. He claims
to have 14 lives. Says he’s already used 12. He says rhyme is a forgotten art,
and art a forgotten rhyme. He’s never cut his wrists. Never felt the need to
be isolated in a room crooning to sullen indie bands with a splashy color in
their name. Says emo isn’t his doing, and just because he’s clad in all black
and likes Plath, he’s not to blame. 

(Originally published in New Wave Vomit)

I’m the Featured Poet of the month

for January at Chantrelle’s Notebook.  They were good enough to put up several of my poems, and will feature more next month.  Some of my favorite pieces are up, recently revised and all.  This is one such poem.  I wrote it a couple of years ago, but recently gave it a makeover.  Have a gander at the others.  It’s a really pretty site with some great artists. 

 

Blood Brothers

When we were ten
we pricked our index fingers,
strangled them, breathless,
until they became a bloody
Cyclops,
and sloppily bonded them together.

He moved four years later,
and I never saw him
until the other day,
bored at work
succumbing to
Facebook again.

His shaved head
mosaic skull tattoos
and double birds
made it difficult to
recognize my friend.

I recalled that day
in Ms. Barrett’s class
when we straightened
and sharpened staples
becoming family:

—The two-story, built-in pool, white boy
—The two bedroom, blow-up pool, Latino
“Brothers Forever…”

However
the emblazoned swastika
branded
on Kevin’s left wrist,
broadcast
we lost touch
long ago.

…to the Head

I’ve been writing poetry for about 4 years now.  And in those 4 years I’ve grown immensely.  I went  from writing introspective musings, to socio-political, pseudo-rants, to writing about everyday scenarios of the human spirit.  And as I begin the next, much-needed step in pursuit of all that an Antioch MFA offers, I can truly say there is one poet that has had more of an impact on my development as a writer that any other.  Though I haven’t read him in a long time, Saul Williams inspired me to write.  He took me to a far away world, allowing me to examine mans’ shortcomings and evolution, as well as my own spiritual quest.  Saul Williams gave me the eyes to examine, the guts to experiment, and the heart to beat the pace I desired.  While I don’t read Saul much these days- instead digesting Hoagland, Simic, O’ Hara, had I not read Saul Williams, I would’ve never read any of the others.  Here’s to you Saul…

Repost

I’m happy to say I have more readers now then when I started this blog.  Therefore, I shall occasionally repost from earlier musings that didn’t get much attention.  This is one of my favorites I’ve written.


Small World
 

She typed furiously
On her laptop,
Excessively
Straight-laced
And homely.
Her tan loafers
Firmly planted
On the carpet
Indicated
She never had sex.
She captivated me
Nonetheless.
I wondered what she
Was writing
So hard,
And thought
Maybe
She was a poet too,
And if so,
Would she rather dine
With Rumi,
Or Bukowski,
Or maybe Plath?
She paused for a moment
Holding her bangs
Between her fingers,
And I thought Plath.
Definitely Plath.

The Chickasaw Plum